Our friend Kate Hardy has a serious novel out with a serious publisher printed as a serious hardcover:
 |
| The book |
 |
| The author |
We are intensely jealous, of course.
(From the press release:)
Londonia is a magnificently immersive page-turner. Set in 2072, it seems at first to be a dystopia in which the internet and other modern technologies have collapsed. An elite have sealed themselves up in Central London, while everyone else has to get on as best they can, making-do, bartering, and cooperating with their neighbours. Moving between the two societies is Hoxton, a "Finder" of desirable objects, her own past a mystery to be solved, with the help of new friends. Can hope and friendship survive in this strange new world? . . .
(This is how it starts:)
‘Oi! Second floor. Is Tom Ov-Brixton in there?’ Tom takes a drag on the clay pipe and squints at me through the smoke. ‘Scrote. That’s my hitch—gotta get to the Forrist before darking.’ He abandons the pipe, rolls on top of me and kisses my forehead. ‘Beauteous, you are.’ I trace a finger over his lips. ‘You too.’ As we gaze at each other a brassy note sounds in the street, followed by the same voice, now more insistent. Tom leaves the bed and starts stuffing things into his kitbag. ‘Merda! Can’t find my wrist-clock.’ I hold the weathered disc out to him as he hops about, one leg trousered, the other a naked white streak in this dim room. ‘Here—it was under your felty.’ He pulls on the rest of his jeans, yanks the belt’s teeth into a well-used notch and takes the timepiece from me. ‘Wouldn’t want to go without that.’ ‘What’s the point of wearing it?’ ‘Hands still move, don’t they? Useful for calculating how much work time’s been done—aclockface,two,three. . . any lane, it was Dad’s. Not worth nothing but it’s a . . .’ ‘Mascot? Talisman?’ ‘Where d’you come from, wordsmith dame?’ He grins at me, face still rosy after the activity that has made this bed so warm. I risk the icy chill, slip out from the covers and scoot to the win-dow, a blanket about me. A makeshift carriage waits outside fronted by two horses, their breath pluming white. A man sitting behind them looks up at this window, waves his arms in a gesture of frustration and yells. ‘I foitling said, is Tom Ov-Brixton in there?’ Heaving up the sash I call down. ‘Just coming.’ Tom snorts a laugh, shoves the last item into his bag and envelops me, blanket and all into a hug. ‘Sorry, I gotta go, and so sorry you can’t stay here.’ I kiss his now-anxious face. ‘It’s fine. I’m ready to explore this . . . Londonia—find my way.’ ‘D’accord. They’ll be here soon-time. Tell ’em thanks for the loan of the room.’ ‘I will.’ ‘Can’t xacly take your address, can I?’ ‘Not until I get one.’ He smiles sadly. ‘Write me, p’raps. Ov-Brixton, Hepping-forrist—might find me. There’s a horse-letter-mec what goes in that direction—from Bethy-green.’ The brassy note shrills again and I look out to see the now furious-looking man, trumpet in hand. ‘Pizzin’ come on—got three more to pick up and Clasher territory t’get through.’ Tom shouts out a response, hugs me tight once more then he’s gone, footsteps clattering on the stairs. I consider the vast everything and nothing before me. I should perhaps layer-up and get out there to pace the streets and find . . . the next piece of this life, but the bed beckons again even with its biting population. The people that own these two rooms will return when the sun is directly overhead but as the sky is once again a sullen mass of cloud, it’ll be impossible to anticipate their arrival. Tom said the merde-mec always passes late morning with his cart of shit-filled buckets, so I’ll wait until then. The bed is still warm. I burrow down into the crackling straw and sweet-stale wool covers; curl, foetus-like, try to remember—anything from before these last few days of his kindness. A limpid blankness stares back at my mind’s eye before somnolence fills my conscience. A rattling sound from the street disturbs my slumber. Merde-mec? His call affirms. ‘Bring out yer merde, an’ scraps. Egg for a pail.’ Least I can do for the owners of this place. Hopping out from the covers I cram on shoes and coat and go into the tiny kitchen. The bucket of peelings is full, the other vessel, about half, judging by its weight—no desire to lift the lid . . . I take them and join the other residents walking down the stairs with their own various wastes. The conversation is of never-ending cold, a possible arrival of some charitable and benevolent outfit and scoop-trucks. As we reach the downstairs hall, I ask a man in front of me what these are. He looks at me beneath impressive eyebrows as if I am from a different planet—which I could be. ‘Just don’t be out on the street if you hear a sound like this.’ He emits a wailing cry to which another resident prods him—‘Nah—more like this.’ The hallway is filled with eerie moans until an old woman clangs her pail with a walking stick. ‘Foitlin’ shut it! Don’t we fear it enough wivout you lot doin’ a re-run.’
(You can order the book here, or here; enjoy!)
